


One of Those Days

by Shellepink



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Pre-Slash, banter-based extrapolation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 04:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10180325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shellepink/pseuds/Shellepink
Summary: Cole's comments about one Rilienus have left Dorian in a morose mood, and all he really wants is to be left alone with his thoughts.  Unfortunately, not everyone has gotten that particular memo, it seems...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note about the male OC who shows up in this fic, Jem: he’s not a Trevelyan, nor is he the Inquisitor in my worldstate. He is instead a Fereldan agent in Leliana’s spy network. [Here](http://lavalampelfchild.tumblr.com/post/156918477834/heres-jem-my-first-ever-inquisition-oc-and-a?is_related_post=1) are some screencaps of him if anyone is interested.

_“Rilienus… skin tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles… He would have said yes.”_

~~~ 

Dorian stood in silence by the library’s window.  Small and narrow, but at least it afforded some view.  

He sighed and took a moment to be silently angry with Josephine for banning him from the wine cellar. He had tried to sneak in one night, but apparently, the guards had been told to watch out for him.  No sense of fun, their lovely ambassador!  Delightful in conversation, but apparently lacking in creativity when it came to restocking alcohol.  

A true pity because Dorian could really have used some wine right about then.

Rilienus… Maker it had been so long since last Dorian had _thought_ on him, never mind when he _saw_ the man last.  Leave it to Cole to pick those… unpleasant memories out.  All the people Dorian wanted to think on least.  Never mind the letters he’d exchanged with Mae, the ones telling him that it would be alright, he would find a way to make it alright because he was intelligent and good and his father really did love him, it was just so difficult to love when one didn’t understand.  Never mind those memories, of the things that had gotten him through when everything had looked so very bleak.

No, it was the painful things.  The things that poked holes clean through his emotional innards and left them to bleed all over the proverbial carpet.  Those things. And Cole naively believed that words alone could help.  That “he would have said yes” would help and not make it worse.  

Yes to _what?_  To a question about spellcasting?  To an invitation to tea?  To the mad request to spend the night together the day Dorian almost thought, _to hell with it_?  To a plea to join Dorian as he left Tevinter and made his own angry poor way in the world?  Did Dorian even want to know?

Yes, he did, _of course_ he did, because knowing was everything. Or very nearly everything.  And he never _had_ known how Rilienus felt about him, and it had burned him not to know. Even if knowing would mean seeing that Rilienus was disgusted by him, even if knowing meant Rilienus wanted nothing to do with him, hated him and wished him dead.  He still had to know.  

And now he did.  

And apparently, Rilienus would have said ‘yes’.  Delightful.

Maker help him, but that made it so much worse.

Dorian ran a hand over his face and let his eyes fall shut.  This was going to be one of _those_ days, wasn’t it.

“You’re quiet today.”

Dorian’s lips turned up in a weak smile.  Jem. Not exactly at a moment when Dorian was feeling particularly social, but at least it wasn’t Cole come to have another jab at him.   _You’re being too harsh on the poor boy; he only wants to help, after all._  Dorian expertly hid a wince.  Yes, well, _wanting_ to help and _actually_ helping were two entirely different beasts, weren’t they?

“Did you find more of that dreadfully southern Chantry propaganda?”  Jem’s voice drew him out of his thoughts and actually startled a laugh out of him.  Dorian turned to see Jem propped against the wall beside him, and absently noted that there was only one very narrow window and a single short stack of books separating them.  

Oh, the metaphor was delicious.

His smile strengthened somewhat and he shot a wink at his Fereldan friend.

“Oh, one can never _escape_ all that ‘dreadfully southern Chantry propaganda’,” he quipped back. “Lovely turn of phrase, by the way, it captures the essence of your southern literature so perfectly.”

Jem gave a laugh of his own and quirked an eyebrow, hesitating a small moment.  

“It’s not…your father again, is it?” he asked in a low voice, and just like that, Dorian’s somewhat lightened mood evaporated.  He turned his gaze back to the window and pulled slightly away from their interaction.

“No,” he said, the barest hint of warning in his voice.  Jem heeded the unspoken demand immediately.

“Alright,” he replied quickly. “So, definitely that propaganda, then.”

He was trying to pull Dorian into a conversation, draw him out of this… slump (what an odd word) of his and back into their usual banter.  Part of Dorian wanted to go back to that lighthearted banter, obvious and bold flirting just barely hiding the heated tension bubbling below.  It was much easier that way, certainly.

But the other part of him wanted to hide away for the day, remembering Rilienus and all the other things of Tevinter he had loved and lost.  That part of him didn’t want to – couldn’t? – share these memories with others. That Dorian wanted to revel in the pain and the agony and the ‘what-if’s because… he didn’t know.  He couldn’t puzzle it out.  It was similar to the feeling he experienced when he thought of his father, of his lost birthright, of _anything_ in Tevinter, his lost home.  It hurt, it hurt like a bitch, but he clung to it anyway, no matter how much it made him bleed inside.

 _Dammit, Cole_.

His silence must have gone on too long because in the next moment, Jem was pushing himself away from the wall and giving Dorian a small and composed smile.  

“I should go speak with Sister Leliana,” he said.  Dorian felt something in his chest tighten.

“No rest for the wicked, I see?” he managed to squeeze out.  Jem snorted.  

“Not even a light nap,” he retorted.  A bit weak compared to their usual standards of banter, but then Dorian was hardly on his best game either.  He turned to look at Jem.  He was standing there, apparently waiting.  Dorian could see the opportunity, if he wanted to take it.  He could say anything; he could smile, reassure Jem that everything was as it should’ve been, crack a joke to drive away the gloom that would follow Jem’s departure.

“I don’t think Leliana even knows what a nap _is_ ,” he sighed dramatically. “But I shan’t keep you.”

Jem didn’t so much as blink as he smiled in response – a smile Dorian had long learned to identify as merely civil – and gave an easy shrug.

“She’ll learn one of these days,” he said. “At least I hope she will.”  With that, he gave Dorian one last crisp nod, turned on his heel, and walked away without once pausing or turning back.  Dorian watched him go, focusing on the play of muscles at Jem’s back, in his legs… his delightful backside.  Playing at lewd interest to amuse himself as he ordinarily did.  But today, it seemed, no amusement was to be derived from such diversions.  Dorian turned his attention back to the window, Rilienus returning to his thoughts.

Well, now he felt like an ass in addition to entertaining extremely painful memories.  Lovely.

He should have handled that differently.   _Ah, but what good does regret do?  Rarely does it ever change anything._

“That’s not true,” a soft voice rang in his ears and Dorian’s muscles tensed anew.  Cole.  Dorian took a breath and turned to face the young spirit.  Well, actually, Dorian didn’t know how old Cole was.  Did spirits even age the same way people did?

Cole tilted his head and cast Dorian a look absolutely _drenched_ in concern.  “You’re hiding.”

Dorian let out a self-deprecating chuckle at that.  “Not at all! Whatever would I have to hide from?” Cole seemed to ignore him.

“No,” he eventually responded, shaking his head. “You’re hiding with your thoughts.”  He paused and looked in the direction Jem had gone. “He started talking to you. ‘You’re quiet today.’  You were angry at first, indignant.  ‘Why do I always have to be loud to be alright? Must it always mean something terrible if I simply choose to deviate from the norm?’  Except, he was right.  You are suffering, silent, sequestered away where you hope no one will see you, and yet you want to be seen.  You don’t know which you want more, have never known.”

The words hit Dorian square in the chest, as always seemed to happen with Cole, and he cast a guarded glance around the rotunda.  It was relatively empty at the moment, but Jem was just upstairs, and who knew how many other agents were sneaking around, able to hear every word Cole was saying? It wasn’t as though Cole was trying to be quiet.  Dorian did his best to flash him a patient smile, but it felt tight across his lips. Without a word, he pointedly gestured to the area around them, allowing his thoughts to speak for him.

Cole’s eyes widened and he clapped a hand over his mouth.  “Oh!  Oh, I’m sorry!”  

Dorian sighed and reached out to place a reassuring hand on Cole’s shoulder.  “It’s alright, Cole.”   _I think we’re all fairly used to this by now…_

Cole shook his head, his brow furrowed, his eyes shining with earnest sincerity, and took a step toward Dorian.  “No, I made it worse, I-I didn’t mean to, though!  I’m sorry!  I just wanted to help—”  All of a sudden, he went silent, and his head snapped upwards, eyes going round as he stared toward the ceiling.  

“…Feels so impotent, can’t do anything, I don’t like it when he’s upset, but what can I do if he’s still—” Cole gasped and cut himself off, slapping first one hand and then the other over his mouth, eyes as wide as dinner saucers.  The good ones, the ones imported from Orlais.  

Dorian’s brow furrowed in confusion.  He didn’t remember thinking any of that.  Was Cole finally latching onto someone else?  

“Cole?” he ventured curiously. “Are you alright—”

“Can we leave?” Cole blurted suddenly.  Dorian blinked, surprised.  What, exactly, was happening here?  

“I feel as though something seems to have become a bit lost in the translation here—” he started, only for Cole to interrupt him again.

“It’s too… round… in here,” Cole said, the words seeming to both tumble unnaturally from his mouth even as they clung to the back of his throat.  It was truly a spectacularly odd sight.  The spirit looked awkwardly around them and then back at Dorian, and his face contorted into a tiny grimace.  “Like… the saucers.”

Dorian almost laughed at that, though he managed to pull himself together and offered Cole a composed smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.  “After you.”  

Cole brightened slightly at that, and hurriedly turned back toward the stairs, hastening to make his way over to them.  Dorian followed, perplexity warring with irritation as he left the quiet solitude of his favorite corner to follow a confusing and unintentionally tactless spirit.

They passed Solas as they left, who gave them an odd look, and Dorian responded with a jaunty wave, “We’re going on an adventure!”

And then they were outside, and Cole came to an awkward stop in the middle of the courtyard and sort of… stood there.  Dorian waited in patient silence for a moment, wondering if Cole would at least explain what compelled him to request they leave the fortress.  

It was bloody cold outside, after all.

But, instead of explaining himself, Cole merely took in a breath, smiled, and exhaled in satisfaction. “This is better.”

Dorian stared at him.

“I’m sorry, but _what?”_ he asked, thoroughly confused and rather emotionally worn out.  Normally he was more understanding of Cole’s idiosyncratic behavior, but today found him… not at his best.   _Skin tan like fine whiskey… would it have tasted that way?_ Dorian jerked his head and refocused on Cole.

Cole blinked.

“It’s… better,” he said, his voice less certain this time. “The air is… better.  It—I can breathe easier, and—and isn’t it nice?”  He turned round eyes to the sky and took in an exaggerated breath and Dorian wondered for a moment if spirits could take ill.  He opened his mouth to voice another inquiry – ‘what do you plan to have us do now?’ or ‘why are we out again?’ – when Cole spoke again.

“Can we go for a walk?” he asked eagerly.  Now it was Dorian’s turn to blink.

“A walk,” he repeated, just to make sure he’d heard correctly.  Cole nodded, his hat actually flopping down in front of his eyes for a moment.  Cole pushed it out of the way impatiently and trapped Dorian with an enthusiastic gaze.  

“Can we?”

Dorian very much did _not_ want to go for a walk with Cole, not because he disliked Cole’s company, but because it was cold, he was really starting to hate these snow-covered and utterly dismal mountains, and – perhaps the most significant reason – his mind was very firmly elsewhere, and not of the best condition to be engaging in social activities.

But refusing Cole, especially when he looked as earnest as he currently did, was a bit like kicking a puppy, and while Dorian was no Fereldan in terms of the value he placed on dogs, he certainly wouldn’t enjoy kicking one.

Releasing an internal sigh, Dorian relented.  “Very well, Cole, let us away.”  He gave a playfully exaggerated wave of his hand and Cole brightened even further.  

“Thank you!”

And they were off.

Dorian returned to his corner in the rotunda less than an hour later, very nearly unable to feel his toes, but feeling somehow less… heavy than he had been earlier.  Which was quite unexpected, if he were honest.

Rilienus hadn’t exactly left his mind while Dorian and Cole had been walking, but the pain that accompanied his figurative presence had eased some.  More of an ache than a throb now.  Dorian hummed thoughtfully to himself.   _It seems Cole was right after all._ He really should hardly be surprised about that by now.

Chuckling low under his breath, Dorian moved to peruse one of the library’s shelves – he was actually in a mood to read now – when something caught his eye.  

Sitting innocently in his chair, perched upon the cushion, was a dusty wine bottle, its seal unbroken, clearly lifted from the forbidden cellar Josephine guarded so religiously.  

Dorian stood stock still for a moment, simply staring at the thing.   _…Well that certainly wasn’t there before._  When he regained himself, his curiosity won him over, and he reached for the bottle, inspecting it closely.  

Ooh!  A lovely year, and from Orlais!   _Wonderful_ taste, the good ambassador had.  

Dorian looked back to the chair, wondering if his secret benefactor left a note of some sort.  For surely it had to have been left there purposefully; no one would be so foolish as to sneak a bottle of wine from the cellar only to leave it here unattended.  

“Aha.”  A small slip of parchment sat innocuously on the chair where the bottle had been and Dorian snatched it up to read its contents:

_“Don’t tell Josephine_

_-J”_

Dorian sucked in a breath. For a moment his mind was blank, no words coming to him, not even a name to go with the letter, despite the fact that he knew exactly who had penned the note.

And then… warmth bloomed in his chest, warmth like a steady fire, burning patiently away, bathing him in gentle light, wrapping him up and setting him at ease.  Warmth like when he cast a spell, except someone else had put it there, in him, slowly spreading outward through the rest of his body. Even to his damn toes, and how stupidly _sentimental_ was it that he was convinced the tingling warmth of his damn _emotions_ was actually driving away the cold left behind from his walk?  

Dorian swallowed roughly, looking from the note to the bottle and then back again.  

Was it absurd that he wanted to keep the note almost as much as the wine?

Roughly he pushed the thought away, brushing aside the implications – too much, too soon, too uncertain – that such a visceral reaction brought forth.

It was just a bottle of wine.  A thoughtful gift given by a friend who happened to know his tastes.

_Given after you brushed that friend aside; given during a moment when you were upset and in pain and therefore, given with intent to cheer; given with no prior prompting; given without expectation of anything in return; given to show that someone was thinking of you, even when they didn’t have to; given with affecti—_

Yes, yes, enough of that.

Standing straighter, Dorian closed his hand around the note and placed it carefully inside the nearest book.  He then placed the book under his chair.  There would be time to return it to his room later.  For now…

Dorian grinned and sauntered back out toward the stairs, his target clear in his mind.

Really, the secret spy behind the whole thing didn’t _actually_  expect him to drink all this wine _alone_ , did he?

_Hmm… And how did he manage this, I wonder?  Must be a Fereldan trick._

Dorian had no way of seeing the silent spirit peering at him from his chair, eyes wide with hope and excitement, smile even wider, with his fingers crossed like Varric taught him.


End file.
